The first day of summer...

Well, here we are...almost at the end of June already. My annual beach trip has come and gone, and I am harrassing my husband into planning our next adventure just so I have something else to look forward to...taking Bean to the zoo, an amusement park, a museum...or should we go explore another city, like Boston or Providence or Honolulu? Okay, maybe not Honolulu. But give me a little something to hang my hope hat on. I fold shirts all day for messy tourists, remember?

My girl has had a rough time lately, which means Mommy has been having a rough time lately, too. Seems she's in a bit of a 'mommy' phase and, while it blows my ego up like a balloon to know I'm the only one who can soothe her, it is exhausting. I strive to be that wheeee-anything-goes mom, the one who is always silly, always attentive, always "on". But instead of always, we'll have to settle for mostly. The more she clings, the more challenging it is. This, too, shall pass. When the ego balloon pops because she's turned her affections to her Daddy, I will know that I did what I could during my turn, for better or worse. And then make another deposit in her future therapy fund to make up for my shortcomings.

With vacation over and a cranky, clingy daughter, the outlook for summer is grim. Throw in my disdain for my once-beloved traditional summer thrill, cycling's Tour de France, which has been tainted by scandal and cheaters, and I don't have much going for me for the next couple of months. But why complain? Well, because I'm quite good at complaining, thank you...but I won't. I will turn once again to the things that are providing a pleasant distraction from the sound of the sad trumpet playing in the background (can you hear it? wa wa waaaaaaa...) and make a happy list. Here goes:

• I've discovered a new-found love for all things coconut. Mocha coconut lattes, coconut M&Ms, Whole Fruit coconut popsicles, even coconut-scented moisturizer for after the shower. Just the word makes me happy: coconut. I may need an intervention.
• Speaking of interventions, the new season of "Intervention" has just started on A&E. Along with "Hoarders". My husband wants to know why I insist on finding entertainment in shows that portray people at the lowest points in their lives, and so now has given literal meaning to "guilty pleasure". Sheesh, I love those shows. But the new season of So You Think You Can Dance has me daydreaming about twirling around barefoot, receiving high-pitched squeals from judge Mary Murphy for my brilliant interpretations of choreographer Sonia Tayeh's routines...oh, yeah. That's the stuff. I may even text a vote this season.
• Have you heard that I'm not so fond of my job? I try to make the best of it but it's particularly hard in the summer months, when my friends are free and living life, and I'm left behind picking up after busloads of bargain-seeking shoppers. Closing shifts are the toughest, but the drive home is always a relief. To meander home in the dark with the windows down, listening to Bon Iver, is the perfect antidote. Haven't heard? You should. At night. Accompanied by stars.
• I haven't the time or the funds for pedicures, and I am jealous of all of those pretty toes peeking out of cute sandals (which I also can't afford). Especially since I had my first spa pedicure last summer and crave another like no one's business. But we women must maintain ourselves, musn't we? So I fake it with Essie nail polish in "Too Too Hot". It makes me smile. And it's the color of Bean's kick-off into the world of polish, brushed onto her little toes for the first time, much to her father's dismay. Don't even think about removing it, and every morning she checks to make sure it's still there.(Psst...hey, folks at Essie, did you like that little commercial? Maybe some samples could be arranged?)
• I promised myself I would put some time and energy into my neglected creative side so I am toting around my new Olympus E-P1 camera everywhere and trying to remember to actually use it. I'm far from a genius photographer and will probably never use the thing to its full potential, but it sure looks cool in my bag.
• My bossy girl enjoys playing hide-and-seek in our backyard, which is fun for no one but her. She tells whoever she's playing with where to hide, and counts while watching you "hide" so she can run right to you saying "FOUND YOU!" as if you are just no good at hiding. So when she asks for bubbles instead, I am more than happy to oblige. I could blow bubbles all afternoon. She pops one or two and is finished, but I would keep on keepin' on until the bottle's empty if she'd let me. Maybe one afternoon at naptime I'll do just that.

Well, that ought to hold me for a while. Feel free to share what your simple pleasures are this summer. Maybe I can add them to my list and have even more fun. And if you know of any job openings in bubble-blowing, pass 'em on...

Oh! I do like to be beside the seaside...

Nothing suggests "home" as much as a mailbox at the end of a driveway. It says this is where we live, here is where you can find us. It's not a common sight in a town by the shore, in a grid of streets lined with houses that rotate their residents weekly. But there it was, a big black mailbox in front of the house across the street from our rented beach cottage. I can never remember all of the seven big bad sins, but if envy is one of them, then I was guilty of that every time I saw that mailbox. (I believe gluttony is another so we won't mention all of the M&Ms and mocha coconut lattes that passed my lips all week.) While we packed up the car to return home and leave the sand and surf behind, that mailbox taunted me. Those folks didn't have to leave. They could store their suitcases and not worry about keeping track of all their kids' toys so they wouldn't leave any behind. They could get up and head to work knowing they would return to their ocean view at the end of the day. Can you imagine? I can. And it makes my brain hurt with envy.

I find a whole lotta inspiration at the beach. What is it about the sound of the waves and the feel of sand in our toes that makes us feel reflective and stripped down to our bare bones? Maybe it's being at the edge with nowhere else to go, who knows. It just feels right. When it's time to leave after our week's stay, I am not someone you want to sit next to in a car for four hours. I am miserable. But once I'm home and unpacked, and have slept in my own bed with the sounds of my neighborhood outside the windows, I feel revived. I want to improve everything. My house, my job, my attitude. (This will last for a day or two, usually fading with the first grumpy soul I have to face when I return to work...) I wonder if I would hang on to that fresh, positive feeling every day if I lived near the shore? And will I get the chance to someday find out? Do I want it badly enough to make it happen?

I chose the path I'm on. I chose to not go to college, to work where I could and get the bills paid. I chose to rack up some credit card debt that I'm still paying for, and I chose to live in the moment and not the future, which is now. I chose to have a child, and I choose to do what it takes to keep her healthy and happy, which for now means settling for a unremarkable job that helps put the food on the table. I'm responsible for where I am, and I'm okay with that most of the time. I will keep on doing what I have to do to get my life and family in order. But sometimes...oh, sometimes. The if-onlys creep in and my mind bounces around in the coulda's, shoulda's, and why-me's. They bring out the worst in me, and I let them for a few minutes, and then they are gone. It's so easy to make ourselves victims and forget that we choose our own endings, like those books we read in junior high. I want my chapters to lead to a mailbox that has fewer bills and maybe some sand inside.

I really should start packing...

And so it begins, the annual gathering of way too much stuff to be crammed into suitcases and bags for our week at the beach. After twenty-plus years of doing this, you'd think I'd have it down. I guess I do, but there's always the second-guessing. Do I really need to take three pairs of black flip flops? (Um, yes.) There's the last-minute do-I-have-enough-music panic, loading up the playlists with songs that don't get listened to because I end up hooked on one that I can't get enough of. There's the packing of the whole wardrobe--because you just never know--only to wear the same uniform all week. So why am I sitting here typing when I literally should be getting my crap together? Good question.

I look forward to the week at the beach all year, starting the moment we pull out of the rented beach house driveway to head home. Some years have been better than others, when the long year between trips didn't seem so endless and mundane, and I didn't dread going home so much. But I always couldn't wait to get back, and this year is no exception. Except...

Our family has changed, for better and for worse, and so must tradition. My aunt, the grand dame of our beach babe quartet, will...well, I was about to type that she won't be with us. But that is far from true. She will be with us more than ever. We will quote her when we go out for ice cream, when we search the horizon for dolphins, when we open the refridgerator and see how much food we have left. We will see her strolling the shoreline, head down, looking for shells. We'll hear her up first in the morning, making her cup of coffee, trying not to disturb anyone. She will be helping with the jigsaw puzzle, showing us her finds from the antique shops, guiding us to the least crowded spot in the sand for sunbathing.

Our clan owes our love of the sea and shore to our mothers. From our Nana to my aunt and my own mother, from Manasquan, New Jersey to Bethany Beach, Delaware. Get us all together and you will be sure to hear a beach story or three. It's a part of who we are, and I hope I can uphold the legacy and instill the same fondness for sea air in my daughter. This will be her third year going, and I think the brainwashing is working. She has been talking about it for awhile now, and I hope she bores everyone to death with stories of her trip when we return. But for the endless photos, she won't remember much of Bethany. We want to start looking for new adventures and places to discover and share with our Bean, so she can have her own sense of tradition and family trips to pass along one day, and always tying up one week of limited vacation time with the same destination hinders that plan. And so we move on.

So, in my rambling way, I suppose that's why I'm using this as an excuse to not deal with the beginning of the end, the packing and the prep work. But here is where I will try to lay to rest my thoughts on this being the final trip. I will now start looking forward to my annual week, and all of its usual activities like puzzles and bicycling and dolphin-watching and shopping. And I will go fill up my iPod with good intentions...